Bernardine Evaristo - Girl, Woman, Other

Island of Abraham

Lara

The Emperors Babe

Soul Tourists

Blonde Roots

Hello Mum (Quick Reads)

Mr Loverman

Bernardine Evaristo

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GIRL, WOMAN, OTHER

HAMISH HAMILTON

UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia
New Zealand | India | South Africa

Hamish Hamilton is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

First published 2019

Copyright Bernardine Evaristo, 2019

The moral right of the author has been asserted

The lines quoted on are by Grace Nichols, We the Women, from I is a Long Memoried Woman (Karnak House Publishers, 1983). Lines reprinted by kind permission of Grace Nichols.

Cover design by Ali Campbell
Cover photos 2018 Neil Kenlock (via Tate Images) and Getty Images

ISBN: 978-0-241-98500-7

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the authors and publishers rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

For the sisters & the sistas & the sistahs & the sistren & the women & the womxn & the wimmin & the womyn & our brethren & our bredrin & our brothers & our bruvs & our men & our mandem & the LGBTQI+ members of the human family

Amma

is walking along the promenade of the waterway that bisects her city, a few early morning barges cruise slowly by

to her left is the nautical-themed footbridge with its deck-like walkway and sailing mast pylons

to her right is the bend in the river as it heads east past Waterloo Bridge towards the dome of St Pauls

she feels the sun begin to rise, the air still breezy before the city clogs up with heat and fumes

a violinist plays something suitably uplifting further along the promenade

Ammas play, The Last Amazon of Dahomey, opens at the National tonight

she thinks back to when she started out in theatre

when she and her running mate, Dominique, developed a reputation for heckling shows that offended their political sensibilities

their powerfully trained actors voices projected from the back of the stalls before they made a quick getaway

they believed in protest that was public, disruptive and downright annoying to those at the other end of it

she remembers pouring a pint of beer over the head of a director whose play featured semi-naked black women running around on stage behaving like idiots

before doing a runner into the backstreets of Hammersmith

howling

Amma then spent decades on the fringe, a renegade lobbing hand grenades at the establishment that excluded her

until the mainstream began to absorb what was once radical and she found herself hopeful of joining it

which only happened when the first female artistic director assumed the helm of the National three years ago

after so long hearing a polite no from her predecessors, she received a phone call just after breakfast one Monday morning when her life stretched emptily ahead with only online television dramas to look forward to

love the script, must do it, will you also direct it for us? I know its short notice, but are you free for coffee this week at all?

Amma takes a sip of her Americano with its customary kick-starter extra shot in it as she approaches the Brutalist grey arts complex ahead

at least they try to enliven the bunker-like concrete with neon light displays these days and the venue has a reputation for being progressive rather than traditionalist

years ago she expected to be evicted as soon as she dared walk through its doors, a time when people really did wear their smartest clothes to go to the theatre

and looked down their noses at those not in the proper attire

she wants people to bring their curiosity to her plays, doesnt give a damn what they wear, has her own sod-you style, anyway, which has evolved, its true, away from the clichd denim dungarees, Che Guevara beret, PLO scarf and ever-present badge of two interlocked female symbols (talk about wearing your heart on your sleeve, girl)

these days she wears silver or gold trainers in winter, failsafe Birkies in summer

winter, its black slacks, either baggy or tight depending on whether shes a size 12 or 14 that week (a size smaller on top)

summer, its patterned harem pants that end just below the knee

winter, its bright asymmetric shirts, jumpers, jackets, coats

year-round her peroxide dreadlocks are trained to stick up like candles on a birthday cake

silver hoop earrings, chunky African bangles and pink lipstick

are her perennial signature style statement

Yazz

recently described her style as a mad old woman look, Mum, pleads with her to shop in Marks & Spencer like normal mothers, refuses to be spotted alongside her when theyre supposed to be walking down the street together

Yazz knows full well that Amma will always be anything but normal, and as shes in her fifties, shes not old yet, although try telling that to a nineteen-year-old; in any case, ageing is nothing to be ashamed of

especially when the entire human race is in it together

although sometimes it seems that she alone among her friends wants to celebrate getting older

because its such a privilege to not die prematurely, she tells them as the night draws in around her kitchen table in her cosy terraced house in Brixton

as they get stuck into the dishes each one has brought: chickpea stew, jerk chicken, Greek salad, lentil curry, roasted vegetables, Moroccan lamb, saffron rice, beetroot and kale salad, jollof quinoa and gluten-free pasta for the really irritating fusspots

as they pour themselves glasses of wine, vodka (fewer calories), or something more liver-friendly if under doctors orders

she expects them to approve of her bucking the trend of middle-aged moaning; instead she gets bemused smiles and what about arthritic flare-ups, memory loss and hot sweats?

Amma passes the young busker

she smiles with encouragement at the girl, who responds in kind

she fishes out a few coins, places them in the violin case

she isnt ready to forgo cigarettes so leans on the riverside wall and lights one, hates herself for it

the adverts told her generation it would make them appear grown-up, glamorous, powerful, clever, desirable and above all, cool

no one told them it would actually make them dead

she looks out at the river as she feels the warm smoke travel down her oesophagus soothing her nerves while trying to combat the adrenaline rush of the caffeine

forty years of first nights and shes still bricking it